This is the brutal bargain of high-end sport: it offers one pedestal and one precipice. And in front of 87,192 delirious fans at Wembley stadium, they beat Germany 2-1 to become champions of Europe for the first time.
But, of course, it had to mean more than this. And as captain Leah Williamson hoisted the trophy aloft in her rainbow armband, in front of a record crowd and a peak TV audience of more than 17 million - the most-watched TV event of the year - it felt like the end of one journey and the beginning of another. The first, an undying struggle for resources and respect, for parity and a platform, is finally complete. The second is a journey with no maps, no driver and no end in sight.
For more than 150 years football has been an intrinsic part of the nation's culture and lifestyle, a form of identity, a unit of social currency. And yet, for most of that time, women have been excluded from this club and its perks.
The last time England's men lifted a major trophy, the 1966 World Cup, women were banned from playing competitive football in any form. Now, English football - all of it, not just half - has ascended to the very top step of the podium.
This is a team adored and revered in equal measure, relatable and humble but primarily athletes of the most viciously competitive quality. It is a team of many stars and none: tournament top scorer Beth Mead, goalkeeper Mary Earps, captain Williamson, and rising stars Alessia Russo and Lauren Hemp are world-class in their positions but ultimately submitting their talent to the collective in the way of all great sides. They play with verve and pace and guts; lead and advocate in the way we wished our politicians did; celebrate the same way any of us would. In Sarina Wiegman, they have a coach whose tactical nous and nerveless temperament has allowed a golden generation of footballers to take the leap that eluded so many of their predecessors.
All of which makes this triumph sound inevitable, perhaps even predestined. It was nothing of the sort. Germany were brilliant and resilient, perhaps even the better team over 120 minutes. Once the usual pre-match superfluities had been dispensed with, a game of rare antagonism and ill-temper broke out, with flying challenges, bruising aerial tussles and a mutual grudge that felt too visceral to be confected.
There was a moment a few seconds before the end when England realised they were going to win. The substitutes were standing on the touchline, the crowd was on its feet, and yet none of them was empowered to do anything but watch and hope. And in a sense this was the perfect metaphor for women's football itself, a game that for decades has always been on the cusp of something, some distant promise over the next horizon, a tomorrow that always seemed to ge...
But, of course, it had to mean more than this. And as captain Leah Williamson hoisted the trophy aloft in her rainbow armband, in front of a record crowd and a peak TV audience of more than 17 million - the most-watched TV event of the year - it felt like the end of one journey and the beginning of another. The first, an undying struggle for resources and respect, for parity and a platform, is finally complete. The second is a journey with no maps, no driver and no end in sight.
For more than 150 years football has been an intrinsic part of the nation's culture and lifestyle, a form of identity, a unit of social currency. And yet, for most of that time, women have been excluded from this club and its perks.
The last time England's men lifted a major trophy, the 1966 World Cup, women were banned from playing competitive football in any form. Now, English football - all of it, not just half - has ascended to the very top step of the podium.
This is a team adored and revered in equal measure, relatable and humble but primarily athletes of the most viciously competitive quality. It is a team of many stars and none: tournament top scorer Beth Mead, goalkeeper Mary Earps, captain Williamson, and rising stars Alessia Russo and Lauren Hemp are world-class in their positions but ultimately submitting their talent to the collective in the way of all great sides. They play with verve and pace and guts; lead and advocate in the way we wished our politicians did; celebrate the same way any of us would. In Sarina Wiegman, they have a coach whose tactical nous and nerveless temperament has allowed a golden generation of footballers to take the leap that eluded so many of their predecessors.
All of which makes this triumph sound inevitable, perhaps even predestined. It was nothing of the sort. Germany were brilliant and resilient, perhaps even the better team over 120 minutes. Once the usual pre-match superfluities had been dispensed with, a game of rare antagonism and ill-temper broke out, with flying challenges, bruising aerial tussles and a mutual grudge that felt too visceral to be confected.
There was a moment a few seconds before the end when England realised they were going to win. The substitutes were standing on the touchline, the crowd was on its feet, and yet none of them was empowered to do anything but watch and hope. And in a sense this was the perfect metaphor for women's football itself, a game that for decades has always been on the cusp of something, some distant promise over the next horizon, a tomorrow that always seemed to ge...
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The Guardian Weekly (Digital) - 1 Issue, August 05, 2022